Occasional Demons

by Rick Hautala

  He looked back at the sky. A bit more moonlight was seeping through.

  Derek was damn glad the drive was over. He looked around the parking lot.

  Not many vehicles in the Rusty Scupper’s parking lot—a handful of battered pick-up trucks, some loaded with bait barrels; a Harley or two; a mud-splattered four-by-four; and a rusting white Volvo station wagon.

  Nice eclectic group.

  Probably half the drinking age population of town, Derek thought as he walked up to the bar entrance. He took a deep breath of the air–as close as it was—and pulled the door open.

  Inside, the scene was exactly what he had expected. The room thick with cigarette smoke. Small knots of townies ranged along the bar and seated at a few round tables. From the jukebox, the Mick Jagger was singing about shuffling on the streets on Manhattan. Manhattan—was a world away for these yokels.

  It took a few seconds for Derek’s eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.

  After scanning the room, he had the feeling that the man he was here to meet was the dark hulk seated at the far end of the bar, leaning on both elbows. As Derek started walking toward him, the man turned around and nodded.

  “Evenin’,“ the man said.

  The man’s deep voice was slurred, but what did he expect? In a backwater coastal town like this, what else could you do but drink yourself into oblivion every night? It’s practically a hobby.

  “Evenin’,“ Derek replied with a quick nod of the head. He almost grinned when he noticed how, on this trip to Maine, he had started to adopt a bit of a Down-East accent himself. Maybe it was an unconscious tactic to lull the locals...make them open up a bit. He’d taken to dropping his Gs and dragging out his Rs like all of them.

  “Name’s Howie Chadbourne,“ the hulk said, extending his hand. The man’s grip was hard-calloused and strong. “Pull up a chair ’an have a brew.“

  Derek nodded, sat down, and asked the waitress for a Geary’s Ale.

  “So Meg over to the hardware store says you wanna talk about the lighthouse...out there on the point,“ Howie said without preamble. He hooked his thumb over his right shoulder. Derek took that to be the direction of the lighthouse.

  Not the most accurate directional system in the world.

  “Uh-huh. I’m writing an article for The Boston Globe Sunday Magazine.“

  Howie snorted. After taking a long pull of beer, he shook his head as though deeply grieved.

  “No offense, mista, but we don’t ’zactly need no tourist publicity ’round here. Most ’a them annoying flatlanders with their credit cards keep way south of us—and that’s finest kind with us. You go writin’ anything ’bout us, ’n, far as I can see, all we’ll get’s more of ’em pokin’ ’round here.“

  He pronounced the last word with two syllables—“he-ah.“

  Derek nodded sympathetically just as the waitress arrived with his beer. He took a sip; the cold, bitter taste flooded his mouth, so refreshing after the jarring drive.

  Before he could say anything, Howie continued.

  “We been over-fished, over-developed, over-touristed and overrun by outsides … outsiders who don’t know ’n don’t care (again two oh-so-long syllables: “cay-ah“) that all we want is justa be left alone. Key-rist! Next thing you know they’ll hit oil in Damariscotta and be drillin there! “

  “Well—that’s exactly what my article is about,“ Derek said. “You know, about how all along the coast of Maine development is ruining the old way of life.“

  A bit of a lie, that.

  That wasn’t really what his article was about. The truth was, he didn’t have a clue what the piece was going to be about. After digging around coastal Maine for the last two weeks he had—so far—come up with nothing.

  “I...don’t get it. What’s that got to do with the lighthouse?“ Howie said. “Meg said you was askin’ ’bout spooky Maine, haunted lighthouses and such.“ His eyes rolled a little, and he wobbled on the bar stool. But then like a harpooner finding his target, he grasped the edge of the bar and righted himself.

  Derek took this as his cue to get bolt. This guy obviously had nothing to tell him, certainly nothing he hadn’t already heard a dozen times already. Besides, what more could one say about Maine lighthouses? Most of them don’t work? The little plastic ones make nice souvenirs?

  Where was the fresh, exciting angle? There had already been far too many stories and articles. Why add to the list if it wasn’t going to be...different, somehow?

  This guy Howie was the last pathetic shot.

  Maybe it was time to pack it in and head back to Massachusetts. He probably could cobble something together. Hell, all he had to do was read a few back issues of Up Coast Magazine, and he could do some kind of piece in his sleep. No Pulitzer, but the Sunday editor would be appeased.

  Howie looked up...suddenly alert. “You know, what I oughta do is take you out there,“ he said. His deep, baritone voice was nearly lost beneath the thump of the jukebox as Queen threatened to “rock you.“

  “Out where?“ Derek asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Out ta the lighthouse ’course...out on Tumbles’ Point.“

  Amazingly, Derek found himself nodding in agreement. A sudden, unexpected surge of excitement hit him. And for some unaccountable reason, he felt like a young kid again, planning to do something he wasn’t supposed to. Climbing fences, drinking six packs...

  Maybe it was bad idea. Especially with Captain Howie at the helm.

  “Um, isn’t the lighthouse off limits?“ Derek said, trying to backpedal without being too obvious. He had to be crazy to trust this guy. Nuts to go anywhere this late with someone he’d just met—especially to an off-limits lighthouse.

  “Oh sure—Coast Guard don’t want anybody out there, but what they don’t know won’t hurt ’em. ’Sides, how they gonna know we’re out there? I can show yah the place. Won’t take more ’n an hour or so. You game?“

  “Why not?“ Derek said—even as the little voice in the back of his mind whispered to him that this was definitely not the brightest idea he’d ever had.

  Fifteen minutes later, Derek sat white-knuckled as he rode shotgun with Howie down a winding stretch of dark, deeply rutted dirt road. The headlights of Howie’s pickup truck did what they could to push back the foggy night, but the billowy darkness on both sides of the road was as thick as smoke.

  “Hey, how much further is it?“ Derek asked.

  He’d been checking his wristwatch regularly. It seemed as though they had been in the truck for hours, not minutes.

  “Just down the road a’piece,“ Howie said. “I prob’bly oughta douse the lights.“

  “The lights? How can you—“

  That was all Derek got out before Howie snapped off the headlights. Darkness closed around the truck like a huge fist. The word pitch leapt to mine, After a few seconds, Derek’s eyes adjusted and he could just see the thin, winding stretch of road ahead–at least a few yards of it. The rough gravel looked bone-white in the night. His only hope was that Howie wasn’t so drunk he couldn’t see it.

  “So how long you gonna be up this way?“ Howie asked by way of conversation.

  “Not long, I guess,“ Derek said with a shrug he knew was wasted in the darkness. The light from the truck’s dashboard wasn’t much brighter than a single match. “Couple of weeks, tops. My...me and my wife have been having a bit of trouble lately, so I took this assignment just to—you know—get away for a while. Cool off a bit.“

  “Caught in the ole’ trap, huh?“ Howie said with a chuckle that seemed to come from somewhere under the truck seat.

  “Yeah, well... You know how it is. People change.“

  Derek stretched again, feeling hard knots of tension in his neck and shoulders.

  “Boy don’t I ever,“ Howie said, laughing again as he slowed the truck to a stop.

  Derek leaned forward and saw that, up ahead, the road ended with a barrier—a tall, metal gate with a chain-link fence on either side abou
t ten feet high. The metal mesh didn’t shine—probably rusted as hell. One section looked dented, bagged in as though something big had rammed into it.

  “We—uh—probably shouldn’t go any further than this,“ Derek said, but Howie cut the engine and, snorting loudly, opened his door. The sudden glow of the dome light stung Derek’s eyes.

  “Aww, come on,“ Howie said. “You said yah wanted to find out about this place, didn’tcha? So grab the damn flashlight from the glove compartment and get your arse in gear.“

  Derek’s nervousness grew. There had to be a way out of this, but he couldn’t think of any. So he did as he was told, all the while wondering—again—why he had let himself get hauled out here by a half-drunk townie.

  Actually Howie seemed to be more than half-drunk. He almost lost his balance and fell as he stepped out onto the roadside and swung the truck door shut.

  Great. Auspicious beginning.

  The night and the fields out here were alive with the sound of crickets, and from several directions at once there came the hissing roar of night surf. Derek snapped on the light and looked around.

  Straight ahead, looming up above the rise of land, he saw the top of the abandoned lighthouse. Its single, white cylindrical bulk looked like an ominous pre-NASA rocket ship silhouetted against the star-dusted sky. Derek suddenly found himself thinking that, whatever the stories about this place, they could be true.

  “So what exactly would happen if the cops caught us out here?“ he asked as he directed the beam of light down at his feet and followed Howie over to the gate. The gate wasn’t much of a barrier, but the rusted metal was plastered with several NO TRESPASSING signs that fluttered in the on-shore breeze.

  Derek’s nostrils sucked in the salt-tinged air. And from somewhere off in the darkness came the faint cry of a seabird.

  “Not too much, seein’ as how I am the cops,“ Howie said. He exploded into drunken laughter at that one.

  “Oh,’ Derek said. He couldn’t help but wonder why he still didn’t feel any better about being out here with the local police.

  “What d’yah wanna know ’bout this place, anyways?“ Howie asked. He reached in behind the metal crossbar, snapped something, and swung the gate open as if opening the gate to his own property.

  “Not too sure. Heard some of the legends, myths. What can you tell me?“ Derek asked. He’d been looking at Howie but once again his gaze was drawn to the towering lighthouse up ahead.

  At the pointed top, he could see the window where the light used shoot out, now dark. Maybe it had been boarded over.

  “Some folks say the place’s haunted, that the ghost of the last keeper (he pronounced it “keepa“) still lurks ’round out here. They say that he lures other folks into the lighthouse where he kills ’em ’n forces their spirits to stay with him, to keep him company.“

  Howie paused for effect. Looking at him without shining the flashlight into his face, Derek thought he saw the man smiling.

  “Just playing with you. But the legend says he hanged hisself. That his wife was livin’ out here with ’im, but durin’ the winter she couldn’t take it no more ’n went back to her folks in town. He came to the house ’n tried to convince her to come back with ’im, but she told ’im no, so he—“ Howie finished by clasping his throat with one hand and making a loud gagging sound as though he was being hanged.

  “Sure is lonely stretch of land,“ Derek said, shivering. “Perfect for a hanging.“ He continued to swing the flashlight beam back and forth and look around.

  The rocky land sported little vegetation other than sea grass and tangled scrub brush and brambles. The land around the lighthouse sloped down with a gentle rounded curve on three sides, ending at the ocean. The surf rose and fell gently, for now at least, on the black water around the jagged rocks.

  As they started side by side along the path leading to the lighthouse, the rushing sound of wind and waves grew steadily louder. Derek could almost imagine voices lost in that breeze.

  “Sure is lonely out here. It is that,“ Howie said. The distant tone in his voice unnerved Derek.

  The sound of their footsteps seemed lost below the whistling wind until they started up the gravel walkway that led past the weather-beaten keeper’s house to the lighthouse. The sliding of the stones was audible.

  A tight dryness scratched at the back of Derek’s throat. As miserable as the place had been, he found himself wishing he was back at the Rusty Scupper, downing another Geary’s.

  Finally they stopped when they reached the short flight of steps that led up to a narrow porch and the lighthouse door.

  “Tall sumbitch, ain’t it,“ Howie said, chuckling again as Derek ran the circle of light up the slanting sides of the tower. The lighthouse’s sides angled away with a dizzying perspective. Wind and weather had stripped off much of the white paint, leaving the lighthouse with a chalky, almost bone-like appearance.

  “We don’t have to go in, you know,“ Derek said, aware of the quaver in his voice. “I’m just glad I saw it.“ But Howie had already mounted the stairs to the door and was reaching for the handle. He paused, turned, and looked down at Derek from the small landing, a disappointed look on his shadowed features.

  “I didn’t drive my sorry ass all the way out here for you just to admire the damn architecture,“ he said. Derek detected what he thought was a hint of a … threat. “We’ll have a little look around, ’n see for ourselves if there’s a ghost in here or not. That’s what you’re here for, ain’t it? Well, ain’t it?“

  Not really, Derek wanted to say, but didn’t. He wasn’t quite sure what he was here for. But breaking into an abandoned lighthouse with this inebriated cop certainly wasn’t high on his list.

  If there was such a thing as a haunted lighthouse, Derek thought, then, boy, this had to be it.

  The breeze off the water was warm. But a subtle chill ran up and down Derek’s shoulder blades as he watched Howie lift the latch. When it clicked, it sounded like a gun being cocked. Then Howie pushed the door inward. It opened like a huge, dark mouth.

  “You sure“ (pronounced “shoe-ah“) “you’re up to this?“ Howie asked. There was no mistaking the leering, almost mocking tone of his voice.

  Almost against his will, Derek nodded and said, “Sure.“

  His back was stiff, and he thought his legs might lock up on him as he started up the steps. But Howie had already disappeared into the gaping maw of darkness that was the doorway.

  Derek followed.

  Suddenly the beam of the flashlight didn’t seem anywhere near strong enough. Derek found himself thinking that—even in bright daylight—this place would give him a serious case of the creeps.

  Since starting this assignment, he had seen more than his share of lighthouses old and new, but this was the first—and only—one that genuinely gave him the willies. And the willies didn’t feel good at all.

  There was something...so wrong about the place. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something off.

  “Whew! Smells like somethin’ died in here,“ Howie said, his disembodied voice drifting out from the darkness inside the lighthouse.

  Derek was about to ask him what it smelled like when he stuck his head into the doorway and caught the pungent odor himself. Mixed with the damp, closed air of a building long unused was another was another, far worse smell that Derek couldn’t quite place.

  It reminded him of garbage that had gone terribly bad—garbage when it had old lobster shells or rotting fish in it.

  “Whew! Jesus!“ Derek said, waving a hand in front of his face. He directed the flashlight beam onto the stairs and saw that Howie was already climbing them. Before he started after him, though, he shined his flashlight downward and saw something that surprised him. The stairs descended in a curving spiral downward as well as up. The walls below the level of the entry floor were made of concrete, which was covered with thick mold or algae or something.

  “Wow, how far’s this going do
wn?“ Derek called up. He could hear the steady tread of Howie’s feet on the spiral metal stairs. The sound receded as he climbed up higher, leaving Derek down below. Alone. Derek started moving.

  “Up’s where we wanna go,“ Howie called out.

  The sound of his footsteps stopped, and Derek knew he was waiting for him to catch up. “Helluva view from up he-ah.“

  Derek started up, but then he leaned over and looked down. So strange. The stairwell looked like it plunged straight down into the earth, through the solid granite of the point.

  He knew that lighthouses had to be built strong to withstand the ocean’s surge during blizzards and hurricanes. But he had never heard of a lighthouse with what looked like this deep a substructure.

  And the smell!

  If it was coming from anywhere, it came from down there. Maybe the lighthouse builders had to excavate that far down to reach the bedrock. It was strange, all right. And as Derek directed his flashlight beam down the staircase, he almost wanted to go down to investigate, rather than up.

  “I ain’t got all night, yah know,“ Howie called out, his voice echoing in the stairwell.

  Sucking in a lungful of the bad-smelling air, Derek shined the light up the stairs and started up again. The air was moist and cloying, but as he mounted the steps, it—and the smell—got at least almost tolerable.

  The footsteps of the two men clanged heavily on the metal stairs as they went up. Derek wondered why Howie didn’t seem to need a flashlight. The wavering beam from Derek’s light wasn’t much to go by, even for him.

  Was old Howie going all the way up by feel? What if there was a missing stair, like in Kidnapped, and Howie plunged to his death? What a loss!

  Unless, of course he dragged Derek down with him as he fell,

  “You come out here often?“ Derek called out. For those quiet meditative times, he thought to himself and chuckled silently.

  Howie was six or more feet above him on the spiral staircase. Derek could hear the heavy puffing of his breathing. The man hadn’t been smoking in the Rusty Scupper, but he was seriously overweight, and the climb was obviously taking its toll.